Rattling the Bones in Your Closet
by sunshineditty
Summary: Stiles needs a little loving care after fifteen years of being the biggest BAMF the military has ever seen. Who better to mend the broken pieces than the man he left behind? AU and Future Fic.
1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Title: **Rattling the Bones in Your Closet

**Author**: Sunshineditty

**Fandom**: Teen Wolf Future Fic (diverges from the events of season 2)

**Word count:** 5,829

**Rating: **T for language

**Inspiration:** "O Death" - Jen Titus, "Voodoo" - Godsmack, "Closer" - NIN, and "Bones" - Little Big Town

**Summary:** Stiles needs a little loving care after fifteen years of being the biggest BAMF the military has ever seen. Who better to mend the broken pieces than the man he left behind?

* * *

The air in Beacon Hills was different from anywhere else he'd been to, and in the last fifteen years, he'd traveled to a lot of places – civilized and remote – to be able to make that kind of comparison. It held a hint of winter crisp mixed with soil and wildness, plus the indefinable aroma of human habitation; it was both familiar and jarringly unfamiliar at the same time. This area had represented home to him for the first eighteen years of his life and someplace he'd always thought he'd come back to, but things changed.

He'd changed.

Now it was just the town where both his mother and father were buried; where he'd briefly touched something so incomprehensibly inhuman, he still had dreams of it years later, wondering if the insanity of his life now had forced his mind to create supernatural creatures to explain the awful tearing things humanity willingly did to one another under the guise of a higher calling or being.

Then he remembered Scott. Jackson. Lydia. Erica. Danny. Boyd. Isaac. Allison. Derek.

They were real, even if nothing else ever seemed to be any more.

The man they once called Stiles shifted uneasily at his wandering thoughts, uncomfortable with the conflicting feelings those names engendered, because he had no ties to this world any more. Not since Dad was killed in a drunk driving accident five years ago and left him orphaned for good. Of course, at thirty-three, _orphan_ didn't mean the same, but the scared ten-year-old boy who watched his mother waste away with cancer, still lived inside the hardened man of today, and whispered the word over and over, until he wanted to break his ear drums so he wouldn't have to listen to the whimpering sobs any more.

But how can you outrun a ghost who lived inside your brain?

It was the numbers that saved him once again from the inanity of his own looping thoughts; he remembered the months of agony, surgeries, and physical therapy, as well as being forced to deal with a psychotherapist to head off any post-traumatic stress disorder he might have as a result of his "trauma."

Trauma, what a fucking joke. He was a soldier doing his patriotic duty in a country whose people hated everything he stood for and would stab him in the eye rather than look at him. It wasn't a trauma, it was goddamned mercy mission of peace that fucking blew up in his face – literally.

_2,3,5,7,11,13,17,19,23._...the familiar rhythm of prime numbers burrowed through the haze of memories and allowed the shell protecting him from his _trauma_ to snap around him again, pushing away all those pesky buzzing responses to emotional stimuli. He was a lot better when he didn't have to think, which would surprise anyone who knew the boy he'd been, but then there wasn't anyone left who really knew him. Except maybe Jensen and Eames, but they weren't around anymore. No one was. He was alone. Again.

_Orphan_.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Uh, are you okay?"

He smoothly turned, the safety on his Beretta M9 already off as he brought it up to the forehead of the smaller female standing behind him. A small pink tongue swiped across plump lips was the only indication of her discomfort. It took him a moment to understand he was standing in a cemetery in Beacon Hills, California in the United States and not one of the many war-torn hell holes he'd been dropped into over the years. And she was no insurgent intent on killing him, but an innocent young girl a few years into her teens (though he had seen girls her age wrecking shop on their enemies, but she didn't have the smell...er...look of them).

"Don't sneak up on people when they're shouting crazily to themselves in the middle of a deserted graveyard," he muttered in warning, slowly pulling the gun away and holstering it. He might've been honorably discharged for medical reasons a year ago, but he was still a trained killer with sharp reflexes, even amidst a small mental break down.

"I'll remember that for next time."

He flicked his gaze over her and noticed the subtle clawing of her hands, which accounted for her unusually cool reaction to him. He wasn't sure who was more startled by his crack of laughter: him for actually finding something amusing, or her for amusing him. One hour in this town and already he was brushing up against the _other_. He was tempted to ask her if she was part of the Hale Pack, but he figured if she was, it would tip the others off to his presence, and if she wasn't, then it wouldn't do to out himself as a knowledgeable human.

"What are you doing here anyway? Isn't it a school day?"

Her caramel-colored colored-eyes flickered away from his at that, a clear indication of guilt. He wasn't up on the latest schedule of Beacon High, but he was pretty sure students were expected to be there at eleven am on a Thursday in September.

"What's it to you?"

He shrugged, already tired of this conversation. He wasn't sure why he bothered to talk to her after understanding her true nature. Maybe because this was the first time he'd talked to someone in three days?

"It's not. None of mine. But you better have a good excuse in case your Alp...parents finds out you skipped class."

Fortunately for him, she didn't seem to notice his slip of the tongue, and she scowled at the hastily substituted word instead.

"My dad can't tell me jack shit since he cut classes a lot when he was my age and my step-mom can go fuck herself."

He raised a brow at the vitriol in her voice, disconcerted by his reaction to the stark anger and misery in her small pale face: he wanted to gather her into his arms and rock her in comfort, a dim memory from _then_ flickering in his mind about how wolves needed touch when distressed. It wasn't a natural reaction to a man more used to the caress of polymer and fiberglass than human flesh.

"So you thought to haunt a cemetery instead of going to the mall or the movies? That's not weird at all."

"Today's the anniversary of my mom's death."

He sucked in a breath and gave into his inner urgings to brush his arm against hers. She flinched involuntarily and stepped back, her hands curled into claws again, her eyes wide.

"Who are you?"

"No one who will hurt you, I promise." He shook himself free of the past and knew he needed to leave, now_._ This was supposed to be a simple intel mission: visit the lawyer who'd been hounding him for years about his father's effects and then leave, no one the wiser about his presence in town. He looked over the teenager once more, memorizing her gamine features and dark hair so he could avoid her for however long he was here.

"Sorry about your mom and all. I'll leave you to grieve."

Even after all these years, he still knew the fastest way through the grounds and disappeared into the brush on the periphery of the graveyard before she could hold him there any longer.

* * *

Hannah Nicole McCall watched in astonishment as the man – and he was only a man as far as she could scent – melted into the surrounding brush as silently as any wolf she knew. The whole meeting was utterly odd and so far out of the ordinary, even given her day to day life, she was distracted from her sadness. There'd never been a moment of fear despite the gun he'd held to her head and his seemingly crazy behavior, which had initially attracted her attention when she first saw him. Even stranger, her wolf urged her to bound after him, take his long-sleeves in her teeth and drag him to the Alpha.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, she suddenly smelled her Pack Leader and she closed her eyes in defeat.

"Hannah."

The whiskey-smoke voice rolled through her, her wolf obediently showing her belly, even as the human side instinctively tilted her head sideways to bare her throat.

"Derek, I can explain..."

His hand clamped down on her bicep – funnily enough the same one the mysterious guy touched – and whirled her around into his embrace. She gladly curled into his hug, feeling better as Pack bonds tightened around her, wordlessly assuring her she wasn't alone, despite how utterly wretched and out of place she felt. Hannah might not be welcome in her own home, but she would always have a place with the Pack.

"You shouldn't worry your father like that. He was frantic when he got the call you weren't at school."

And just like that, the comfort dissipated and well-worn bitterness took its place.

"He forgot what today was, didn't he?"

She felt more than heard Derek's sigh. "He didn't forget, Nanna. He just didn't think you'd cut classes to come here." She peeked up at his face and saw him roll his eyes at her father's stupidity. Despite being the Head Beta of their Pack, Derek and Scott didn't always see eye to eye, and she knew she was often a bone of contention between them, though she wasn't sure why.

"Am I in trouble?"

Derek's large hand came to rest on her hair, smoothing down any stray tendrils, running through it to where it ended just below her shoulder blades. "Ordinarily I'd say yes, but today's special, so I'll let it slide."

Hannah rested her forehead against his muscled chest again and just let his scent – leather and freshly split pine undercut by a hint of cinnamon and apples – roll through her, easing the pain and anger and sadness until it was a small knot in the pit of her stomach. It never truly went away, and probably never would, but it was easier to bear right now. His kiss to her forehead was very comforting and she sighed with relief.

Suddenly Derek stiffened and he dropped his head to her neck, scenting her deeply. She knew if any outsiders would see them now, it would look sexual, but it was a triggered response to the new smell on her. She'd momentarily forgotten about the stranger and knew Derek had finally caught a whiff of him.

"Why do I smell gun-powder? Who touched you?"

It was the Alpha speaking, the wolf close to the surface at the potential threat to a pack-mate.

"N-n-n-o one," she stuttered, wolf whine in her voice. She knew the absolute authority in which Derek ran the town and she didn't want the stranger to run afoul of him. It was an unwritten yet ironclad law that no humans could touch wolf-kin, but she'd never seen the guy before so he couldn't have known. And while he was insane in the membrane, she didn't think he would harm anyone. Maybe?

"Don't lie to me!"

"I don't know. He wasn't anyone I'd ever seen before."

"Hunter," an epithet and death sentence rolled into one.

She pushed away from him, and shook her head frantically. "No, no, no. I don't think so. Unless hunters have their people buried here."

The wolf-face faded back to human though Derek's green eyes were still Alpha red.

"What?"

Hannah pointed to where she first saw the guy pacing, his hands slapping at his head as if he were physically trying to stop the voices from speaking. She'd watched him for a while, intrigued by the thick white scars spread across half his face and the fluid way he wove through the graves, even as she realized he wasn't fully cognizant of his surroundings. He'd finally made his way close to where she stood now, startling her into speaking when he kept muttering "shut up," in a sing-song voice.

Derek released her and strode over to where she indicated; it was an older part of the cemetery that was separated from the rest by a wrought iron fence and was filled with small mausoleums and stone-faced angels hovering protectively over their skeletal charges. Hannah watched as her Alpha sniffed the air and was lead unerringly to the exact headstone the stranger stood before earlier. He read the name of the dead and startled her as he threw back his head and howled, his human throat seemingly incapable of producing the Alpha roar calling his Pack to the hunt.

The roar forced the change on her, and Hannah melted into her wolf-form, gray and black striped fur sprouting as her bones twisted painfully, dropping her to all fours panting with exertion. Soon enough she joined his throaty call, her voice adding to the cacophony and within moments their song was enriched as the other wolves responded, a warning to anyone listening.

A hunting they would go.

* * *

The town of Beacon Hills had a long and varied history, starting with its initial founding at the behest of itinerant gold-miners who lost their way to Sutter's Mill. Unfortunately for them, they had chosen a site already under the protection of a small native American tribe and a wolf-kin pack. The written records of the dispute were long lost, though oral recounting of the bloody drawn out war were still carefully passed down among descendents of the survivors; the right to the land was finally won through the might of a hastily arranged militia formed from an Army garrison stationed nearby, forcing the remaining natives to leave their ancestral home and the wolf-kin to melt even further inland.

Eventually, however, the memories and stories of men who became animals faded, until the Pack could return, carefully seeding their presence among the village, watching from the shadows as it grew into a town. Unlike other wolf-kin in the area, the Hales had learned to co-exist with humans, even welcoming them into their Pack, thus adding to their power as the number of wolf-bitten swelled to equal the number of wolf-born. It was through their integration that they realized turned members could mate with wolf-born and produce more wolf-born, though the offspring were always Betas or Omegas, never Alphas. Later it became clear non-turned human pair-bonds could also mate and produce with either wolf-bitten or wolf-born, though there was a fifty-fifty chance for the child to be either fully human or latent wolf.

The wild divergence of genes and traits of such mixed heritage enabled the Hale Pack to withstand diseases and problems that decimated many of their rivals; it also empowered their territorial pushes because they weren't forced to kill born Alphas out of fear he or she would eventually try to dispose the current Alpha once they came of age. Instead they were sent off to start their own packs and a civilized manner of passing the Alphaship developed as California, Oregon, Washington State, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado were colonized by Hale descendents.

As a result, by the time Derek Hale was born, the old way of killing the former Alpha to gain the power had been abolished and the much tidier form of wolf-kin primogeniture was established. Laura, Derek's oldest sister, was reared as the next Alpha, and he was relegated to Beta status. This was all he would've ever known had Fate in the form of Kate Argent not stepped in and completely upended a century's worth of tradition by killing the majority of his pack and starting the chain of events that forced Derek to do the unthinkable and take Alphaship by fang and claw in the way of his ancient ancestors.

In the seventeen years since, Derek had known little peace, always battling some outside threat as he sought to stabilize and protect his young pack-mates; eventually he'd wrested an accord with Northern California based Hunters, entered into mating agreements with three surrounding packs, and expanded his power base in Beacon Hills by integrating his wolves into the fabric of the community before revealing the existence of wolf-kin. It made strategic sense since a good portion of his original wolf-pack were children of high-profile citizens and the humans benefited from their presence through low incidence of crime-rate; Beacon Hills was awarded Safest City in America five years running. And it also gave a wider pool to select new potential pack members from, a process which Derek had streamlined with the help of Dr. Deaton, basing his decisions on genetics and familial history.

Therefore, when Derek raised his voice in demand, no one batted an eye as several furry wolves burst through doors and ran down Main Street towards the cemetery. The responding howls provoked a similar response in drivers as fire engine or ambulance sirens, cars immediately stopping at lights regardless of color or pulling to the right side of the street. It was an awe-inspiring sight for the uninitiated, but old hat now for the older members of the community.

Boyd and Scott were the closest, so they arrived ahead of the others, skidding to a stop before their still human Alpha, the run barely winding them despite the unexpected change. Hannah delicately stepped forward, her tail half-cocked behind her, and touched noses with the Head Beta and the older pack-mate.

Derek ignored them, his eyes focused on the headstone for John Edward Stiliniski, one of the best men he'd ever known, rage threatening to score his bones even as harsh satisfaction filled him. It rankled his wolf to give way to its human side and lie in wait for their prey to come to them instead of running them down, but Derek knew he had to out wait the enemy in order to eradicate the problem at the root. And it seemed his patience was going to be rewarded.

When he scented his seven Enforcers, he finally turned to face them, not bothering to hide his emotions. They'd been through so much in the intervening years and were the core of the pack; he couldn't have done anything without their help.

"For the first time in five years, someone came to the Sheriff's grave. We need to track the stranger and find out who sent him and why. There's no way this is a fucking coincidence." He beckoned Hannah and she came to rest against his leg. "Memorize the smell overlying Nanna and _find me our prey!" _

Seven wolves wove in a seamless pattern, Hannah at the center, both to scent her and also to reestablish Pack as the dominant smell. In one flawless turn, all the Enforcers headed in the same direction as the stranger, following his scent as easily as if he'd laid a trail down in blinking neon arrows.

Derek's smile was feral and wholly non-human, but there was no one beside a wolf-kin child and voiceless ghosts to witness its furious beauty.

* * *

The subtle darkening of the sky alerted the Stiles shaped man to the encroaching evening and he carefully backtracked through the forest until he hit the old deer trail leading to where he'd hidden his rental. He hadn't been completely sure if the teen was a Hale wolf or not, so he'd made damn sure he wouldn't lead anyone back to the house since he didn't want anyone to know where he was. He'd originally intended to visit the lawyer, but the sounds of wolves on the hunt had forestalled that plan. He didn't know for sure if they were after him, but the cries so close to his accidental meeting was too coincidental, so he decided better to be paranoid than unprepared and split the rest of the day between lying down a confusing scent trail and making certain to cover the real one up so they couldn't actually find him.

It struck him as funny that many of his methods, while refined in the military, were originally taught to him by Derek himself. The two years he'd spent under the Alpha's tutelage had instilled an incredible focus that eventually led to one service nickname of "Ghostwolf," an ironic moniker he'd shrugged off because it was too painful a reminder of what he'd left behind.

He hadn't spoke to any of his former friends in nearly eleven years and while part of him regretted cutting those ties, a larger part of him had relished the freedom of becoming his own man without the Beacon Hills baggage. Used to being the weakest and least important member of the Pack, all too fragile human compared to preternatural strength, he'd blossomed in a structure that enhanced and reaffirmed his gifts until he'd become a top dog in his chosen field, a sop to the burning resentment of the eighteen year old boy in love with a stern and broken Beta-turned-Alpha.

Upon reaching the rented jeep, he opened the door and hopped inside, ignoring the welter of mud and leaves falling from his clothes and skin onto the seat and floor. Nostalgia struck him hard as the engine turned over, even though the sound was nothing like the purr of his beloved blue jeep, now long lost to time and distance. He bowed his head against the steering wheel for a moment, the phantom touch of Derek's hand at his neck so strong, he expected the frowning wolf to be seated next to him when he opened his eyes.

"No, no, no, no. Go, go, go. Stop, stop, stop."

The repetition of the sounds soothed his upset and the past vanished when he snapped on the headlights and drove back towards town.

* * *

Derek was no longer smiling as he sat at the head of the large rectangular table in the dining room, listening to his Enforcers explain how they'd been unable to run the prey to ground. Though Beacon Hills was firmly in his grasp, the city was large enough to hide newcomers, though eventually he would be sniffed out. The Alpha was dissatisfied because his rage had had no outlet for five years and to have someone so close slip away frustrated him to no end. The other wolves understood his feelings, but could offer no comfort.

"If Hannah could sketch the guy she met, we could circulate the picture and turn everyone into watch dogs for us."

Isaac's suggestion was valid and him putting forth his idea showed how far along he'd come in building his confidence since the terrible days of his human childhood and the subsequent power trip he'd gone on during the initial phase of his turning, when Derek was still unbalanced as his power fluctuated between Beta and Alpha.

"Scent and sight. Do it."

The short sentences and curt tone were the stressed tones of an Alpha on the edge and no one dared meet Derek's eyes in case it might be construed as challenge.

Scott nodded, immediately retreating from the room in search of Hannah. She'd moved into the Pack House a few weeks before school started on the pretext of needing more hands on training, but everyone knew it was because she didn't get along with Scott's mate Nancy, and it was easier to keep peace by separating the two females.

Boyd exchanged significant glances with Lydia and Jackson, both of them urging him to do something about their Alpha, but his mood was one where only fucking or fighting would assuage the fury. Derek hadn't had a consort in months, so no help there, and no one in their right mind would step up to offer a flesh ritual to him right now. Boyd idly thought about calling for a puppy pile, but figured the others were still too cowed by their failure to feel comfortable enough to touch the Alpha. He didn't have a mate to drain off the emotional impact, so the Pack Bonds were forced to do it instead, and it would make it so much sharper with skin to skin contact.

"I'm going running," Derek announced, the wolf in his voice, which precluded his betas from offering to follow. It didn't matter, they all knew where he was going tonight anyway. It was where he always went in a grip of mad emotion.

* * *

Hannah watched as her father stepped across the threshold into her room, his hands running up and down his jeans as he watched her uneasily. Part of her relished his nervousness while the other half mourned the easy loving relationship they used to have. She'd been five when her mother was killed in a territory dispute and nine when Derek had arranged a contractual mating for Scott with a neighboring pack. In the four years between, the two McCalls had developed a close bond, both mourning the beloved woman they'd lost, and became each others' worlds. Scott, the only child of a single parent, had known her pain intimately so he tried to juggle his duties as a traveling vet with keeping her as his number one priority, and it had worked for the most part. The slack was taken up by the rest of the pack, but most especially Derek.

When Nancy first came into their lives, Hannah had been prepared to accept the other woman, approaching the age where the mysteries of womanhood were on her horizon and she wanted a mother's touch. Unfortunately, Nancy, the third daughter of the other pack's Alpha, had no intention of accepting her mate's daughter, though that sentiment hadn't become clear until a few months after the ceremony. The systematic breakdown of Scott's and Hannah's relationship could be laid at Nancy's door as she undermined both their efforts to maintain a loving and close bond, while Nancy played everything off as the injured party being attacked by her ungrateful step-daughter.

Now five years later, Hannah lived with the Alpha and her father attempted to beget children on his second mate to no avail and Nancy's continuing bitterness.

"What do you want?"

He straightened at the snide tone, a growl low in his throat.

"You will treat me respectfully as your Head Beta."

Hannah's wolf immediately submitted to him, whining in apology despite her very real disgust with him, but she was glad he couched it in wolf terms rather than familial ones.

"Alpha wants you to draw a picture of the man you met today so we can find him."

The fourteen year old nodded quickly, gathering the necessary items from her desk drawer before retreating to the window seat in the corner, her favorite place to draw. Scott paced back and forth for the first few minutes, listening to the scratch of the graphite pencil over the thick paper. He desperately wanted to reach out to his daughter, tell her how much she reminded him of Allison, how much he missed Hannah and wanted her to come home, but as always the words were stuck in his throat. His wolf whined softly in his chest, distressed by his roiling emotions and wanting to stroke their pup, but he ignored everything and stuffed it down as his usual wont.

"Done," she told him quietly, her lower lips tucked between her teeth as she held out the drawing. Scott nodded his thanks and grabbed the page, not bothering to look at it, just relieved to escape the room and get away from the sight of his many failings as both a man and a father.

* * *

Derek shifted from his four-legged form to the upright Alpha one and jumped to the second story window. It was pathetic, but he'd kept the Stilinski house exactly as John had left it, including the shrine to the son he'd lost to the bigger world so many years ago. Derek had never understood why Stiles had cut the ties so thoroughly when he'd left Beacon Hills; he'd always expected the boy to come back home after college as the rest of the pack did, but the military contract he'd signed to get more money to cover his school expenses unexpectedly came due, and he'd been sent overseas, but at the end of his four year hitch, it inexplicably became eight and then a career, the implication being Stiles no longer considered himself Pack and subjected to Alpha's Law.

The window was well-oiled and didn't squeak as he lifted the pane, remembering how it used to whenever he would come here. Despite the passage of time, Derek always thought he'd still find Stiles seated at his computer desk, fingers dancing madly across the keyboard as his ADD riddled mind ping-ponged between five tracks of thoughts that had nothing to do with each other, but yet somehow made sense to him if no one else. Derek was often by irritated by the boy, but towards the end, he'd been fascinated and then reluctantly captivated, wondering what it would feel like to bring that incredible mind to focus solely on him. The age difference had ceased to be a problem by the time Stiles was eighteen, but Derek had kept an iron control on his wolf for so long, he didn't know how to let go and then it was too late.

He quickly stripped his clothes off, neatly folding and putting them on the chair in the corner. A small smile stretched his lips as he remembered the day he found it there, Stiles commenting if he was going to be a creepy creeper of a sour wolf, he might as well be comfortable instead of looming like a big loomy supernatural creature and making him all nervous. It was the first overture of a friendship which eventually became one of the most important relationships in his life, something he hadn't realized until it was stripped so unceremoniously, leaving him bereft of the solace and companionship he'd taken for granted. And master strategist, though he'd been able to replace that with the father who begat such a brilliant mind. It would probably surprise his wolves that many of his plans were derived from Stiles' research, the meticulously detailed notebook he left behind that held Machiavellian ideas for conquest.

Derek crept across the floor, allowing his mind to pull back the years to the heady days of arousal spiced by fear, pretending Stiles slept in the bed. It was completely sick and wrong, but on days when he needed something _more_, he would roll around on the sheets, scenting them with his body and cum, as he wished he'd done when his boy still lived here.

He sighed in relief at the familiar feeling of the crisp cotton against his bare skin, his wolf growly but willing to indulge in the fantasy, enjoying the heat of another body against his.

Wait.

What.

The.

Fuck?

* * *

Scott returned to the dining room where the other Enforcers were still seated, their eyes turned towards him.

Danny was the first to reach out, sensing his pack-mate's distress, nuzzling against his throat. Scott accepted the comfort, and was soon surrounded by Erica, Jackson, and Isaac, all of them trying to rub against him. Boyd rescued the crumpled paper from his fist, smoothing the edges, though his eyes were more on Lydia's face than the drawing. Her strawberry-blond brows were drawn into a fierce scowl, her anger palpable; Allison was her best friend and Hannah her god-daughter, so naturally she was incensed by Scott's poor parenting skills.

Boyd shook his head at the mess, even as his wolf sympathized with Scott's pain. His gaze dropped to the picture, the harsh black lines revealing a short-cropped haired man with thick scars crawling over his face in a serpentine pattern that made no sense. It obscured the right side, pulling on the skin below his eye and cutting through the crease of his lips, creating a strange upturn similar to the Joker from that Batman movie. Hannah was a fantastic artist, pencil her greatest medium, and she'd managed to capture both sadness and a certain craziness in the oddly familiar face, though if pressed he wouldn't be able to explain what he meant. The body was unremarkable, tall, thin, and covered in a long-sleeved shirt over camo pants tucked into black boots.

"Hey Lydia, does this guy look familiar? I feel like I've seen him before."

The other wolves turned at his words, Scott's emotional pain forgotten for the moment.

Lydia crowded next to Boyd and stared at the picture. "He does, but I can't quite place him." It was irritating because she felt like she should know him; the jawline and that _mouth_ sparked a foggy recollection of _someone. _ Swiping it from Boyd's fingers, she held it up so the others could see it.

"Who does this look like?"

Scott stepped closer, finally looking at the sketch his daughter drew. He tilted his head and blinked, sure his eyes were deceiving him. It'd been a long time since he'd seen his best friend, but even with scars, it looked like...

"Stiles?"

* * *

**A/N**: This is my first foray into this fandom, so I'm just getting my feet under me. I'm not quite in tune with the characters as I am with other shows, but hopefully this was interesting enough to continue following me on their journey. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_tbc_


	2. Fair is Foul, and Foul is Fair

**Title: **Rattling the Bones in Your Closet

**Author**: Sunshineditty

**Fandom**: Teen Wolf Future Fic (diverges from the events of season 2)

**Word count: **5,206**  
**

**Rating: **T for language

**Inspiration:** "Too Close" - Alex Clare (the lyrics & video really helped me visualize Derek and Stiles), "Animal I Have Become" - Three Days Grace, "Bulletproof" - La Roux

**A/N:** Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and favorite-ting my story. I responded to all those I could and I really appreciate the guest reviewers as well. And thanks to whomever who added this story to the "Really Good Fanfic Community" I'm honored!

* * *

**Recap: Stiles returns to Beacon Hills after fifteen years away to visit the grave of his recently deceased father. At the cemetery he deals with the ending of one life and jump-starts the beginning of another when the present and the past collide.**

* * *

"_Stiles?"_

Lydia mentally peeled back the obfuscating scars and fifteen years, suddenly seeing the quirky boy who'd promised undying love for her at the tender age of five, and had never seemingly deviated from his devotion until he was sixteen and became immersed in the wolf-kin world. Tears of joy and anger and pain and _Pack_ filled her eyes.

"It _is_ him, Scott. It's Stiles!"

The others exchanged shocked glances, struck dumb at possible evidence of their lost friend. No one had seen hide or hair of him in over a decade, not even coming back for the Sheriff's funeral which made the situation even more perplexing given how close the Stilinski men were. At least were at one time.

Danny traced the stark lines of the weathered face. "What happened to him all those years ago? Where's he been?"

"More importantly," Boyd pointed out, ever the calm eye in the maelstrom, "We need to let Derek know."

"Are you suggesting we go find him at the Sheriff's house?"

The horror with those words were spoken would normally generate mocking laughter on behalf of the others, but Jackson's tone was understandable. Despite how close they'd become to Derek, _no one_ disturbed him when he was in this mood. It was the closest he ever got to the power-drunk Alpha he'd been after he first killed his uncle.

Erica tossed teased blond hair over her shoulder and laughed lightly. "I'm sure he won't give a fuck about Stiles being back; not after he abandoned the Pack."

Lydia looked away from the sketch and narrowed bright blue eyes at her pack-mate. "Riiight, Erica. Derek not caring is as likely as him going to _your_ bed." The spiteful words riled up the other female, but she managed to resist slashing out with anger; it was true she'd tried to seduce Derek more than once, but he made it clear he didn't want or need anything sexually from her. Erica really didn't want_ him _that way anymore either, not when she'd found something deeper and more lasting with her mate, but the small hurt at _why_ Derek never fucked her was an open wound.

And the redheaded wolf knew it.

"Shut the hell up! Who care about what Derek knows or doesn't? Stiles is here, he's _home_ and he didn't come see us himself." Scott cut across the other two, his hands clenched at his sides. "He knew Hannah was wolf and still left."

"You don't know that, Scott."

The dark-haired wolf turned on Danny with an uncharacteristic snarl. "She told Derek that Stiles brushed against her arm when she told him she was at the cemetery for the anniversary of Allie's death. Why else would he touch someone he _didn't_ know, unless he thought she was a Hale wolf? He knows wolf etiquette as well as anyone here." Probably better since he was the one to educate them when they were still struggling to become a pack.

"He could come see us tomorrow."

Scott snorted and shook his head in both negation and disbelief at his pack-mate's naivete. He'd been friends with Stiles since they were both snot-nosed kindergarteners who got into trouble because Stiles couldn't sit still and Scott was a follower.

It might've been awhile since he'd seen his friend, but Stiles' fundamental character wouldn't change; more especially, his stubbornness when his back was against the wall. Unless someone did something, he would never return to the pack.

There was one secret Stiles had never shared, but Scott knew anyway: at eighteen he fell love with Derek and it had killed him to see the older wolf ignore his feelings. It was worse than what happened with Lydia because she'd been completely oblivious to Stiles' existence; Derek would certainly know how he felt, being able to smell the physical response to emotions _and Stiles knew this_, so it was a slap in the face.

Of everyone in the pack, he was the only one who wasn't surprised that Stiles wasn't coming back after he left for college. The Sheriff had known it too, but didn't let anything slip even when he found out the truth of why Stiles once spent so much time in the woods with an alleged murder suspect. Instead he'd locked eyes with Scott and merely nodded, a covert signal that told his son's friend that he wouldn't break the silence either. He thought if Allison wasn't too caught up with figuring out how to be a teen mom and keeping her family from killing her mate at the time, she would've added one plus one and come up with Derek. He was just glad she hadn't tried to rope Lydia into fixing the situation because it would've probably set off WWIII.

"Derek still needs to know," Boyd repeated, his voice irritating Scott. He hated how the other wolf had moved into the advisory role once Stiles left, posturing as if he was Derek's right hand man. True, Boyd was the most disciplined of Derek's bitten, but he wasn't half the Yoda Stile was. His calmness and stoic behavior was easily peeled back with the right pressure, something Scott would bet wouldn't happen to Stiles. No, Stiles would go on the offensive and find a way to mess with his enemies if he couldn't make them back off with his words.

"It's true, Scott. Derek set us to hunt him and we will be disobeying our Alpha if we don't track him down."

"Screw you, Jackson! Since when do you toe the line for Pack Law?"

"Since I don't want my freaking throat ripped out." His voice lowered appreciatively. "_With his teeth!"_

Everyone winced, their hands instinctively covering their necks. At one point or another, Derek had used the threat effectively, showing them exactly how much insubordination he would tolerate before he would go Alpha on their collective asses.

Once was enough.

"I will go then, " Boyd decided, his decisiveness relieving Jackson and Erica. "You guys stay here."

"I'm going."

"Me too."

"I'm comfortable holding down the fort. I'll make cookies."

Lydia and Scott spoke as one while Danny tried to play peace-keeper as usual. You'd think he was the Omega instead of Jackson, but everyone knew he was the nicest guy in town; which is probably why he was Mayor despite his furry alter ego.

"Fine. Danny, Erica, and Jackson stay here while Scott and Lydia follow me." Boyd waved a hand towards Isaac, who hadn't said a word. "You keep an eye on Hannah."

Scott resentfully filed outside behind the others, silently vowing he wouldn't let Stiles leave Beacon Hills without trying to convince him to stay, regardless of whatever the Alpha decreed. They all quickly disrobed, comfortable in their nudity and each other, regardless of the tenseness between them. Within moments the dissension and anger disappeared with the change, their wolves impatient with trivial human problems when the moon and night beckoned them so sweetly. As one, they loped off towards the tugging of Pack bonds leading to their Alpha.

* * *

Crawling through the window of his boyhood room was a piece of cake, even if he didn't have supernatural abilities, Stiles mused to himself, wondering when the house had shrunk. He remembered the second story being so much higher, but then maybe being forced to parachute out of a plane in the dark into enemy territory made these things relative.

Shrugging his idle speculation aside, Stiles snapped on the small flashlight he kept tucked into his carryall, unsurprised at how his room was exactly the same as when he left, even down to the empty bag of Cheetos lying on the desk. His dad was a sentimentalist and couldn't bear change – he'd kept his wife's side of the walk-in closet stocked with her clothes for years after her death, until Stiles couldn't stand to see them there anymore and taken them down in a fit of melancholic rage. What _was_ surprising, though, was the fact everything was still here exactly the same five _years_ after the Sheriff's death.

It was one thing for his dad to keep the shrine, but anyone else?

_Derek_, his intuition whispered. He must've been the executor of his dad's will, the one the lawyer kept nattering on about. It made sense, he guessed, because the Alpha certainly wouldn't go through any personal effects without Stiles' say so. He understood too well about the pain of losing family and only having objects to remember them by.

And apparently hope sprung eternal for Derek that Stiles eventually would come back to Beacon Hills.

Deciding he was too tired and emotionally overwrought to deal with any more bullshit, he went to the bathroom and flicked on the faucet to see if Derek had continued to pay the water and electricity bills. Since cold water rushed through, the answer was obvious. Just glad he could clean off the muck he'd rolled in to disrupt his scent trail, he quickly undressed in the dark, unwilling to turn on the light.

The shower was quick and he briskly toweled himself dry before redressing with his spare clothing. There were sheets on the bed – while not musty, they did carry a distinctive smell he faintly recalled – so he slipped his steel recon knife beneath his pillow before settling in, sure he would lay there staring up at the ceiling all night. Maybe it was being in the last place he ever called home, maybe it was overwhelming exhaustion from carrying the weight of his guilt, but whatever it was, he dropped into a deep sleep and never noticed.

_Stiles knew the gut shot was clean, knew it like he knew the shooter had purposely kept from hitting any major organs or arteries, so he would bleed into the abdominal cavity and fill his lungs with blood eventually; the tossup would be if he'd die from the sepsis entering his veins as his body attempted to repair catastrophic damage or if he'd suffocate as his lungs futility attempted to leech the dangerous liquid away from vulnerable air sacs. Either way, it promised to be excruciating and drawn out. The soft step-drag of boots across rock-strewn water roused him from his morbid thoughts and he centered himself so he could look up from where he slumped against the tree._

_The revelation of his killer should've felt more like an "Ah-ha!" moment, but it took too much energy. Stiles knew there was no reason or excuse enough in the world to clarify this situation; he honestly didn't expect or even want to know why he'd been shot down like a dog in the street. The irony of surviving wolves and hunters and the fucking supernatural to die at the hands of a mere human a world and a half away from them was the greatest last "Fuck you" to Derek "My word is Law" Hale he could think of since the older man had always worried he was too feeble, too slow,too _something. _Of course, he probably would never know where or how Stiles died, but at least Stiles would know._

_It wasn't like he _wanted _to die, but there wasn't going to be any last moment heroics because no one even knew where he and his team were. He wished he could've talked to his dad once more, but maybe it was better this way. Their last conversation had ended on a good note, love exchanged despite the distance between them. He smiled a little, grateful he'd managed to make it outside into the forest before being felled. It was the closest he would get to Beacon Hills in what remained of this life._

_He tried to ignore the cold spreading through him, but it was hard to counteract the tearing agony of rent flesh, and listened to himself whimpering with detached disgust. Maybe Derek was right about him being weak and useless; Stiles had always harbored the fantasy if he'd gotten seriously hurt, he would stoically bear the pain without a sound the way Derek had when he was shot in the arm. He kind of hoped he'd die soon to spare himself the embarrassment of actually crying out for his long-dead mother, words he felt trembling behind his gritted teeth._

_The face bent near his was young, more suited to lounging on a couch complaining about bitchy high school girls than that of a soldier fighting a war started when his great-grandfather was a child. He almost wanted to reach out and stroke the softly curved jaw that showed the beginning shadows of a patchy beard, forgiving him for this senseless act, but there was more than language barring them from reconciliation, so he used the last of his rapidly fading strength to thrust his knife into the kid's throat, twisting it as he was taught, and the edge dug into the carotid artery slicing it clean through. The spray of scalding hot liquid life marked Stiles and he did not dishonor his enemy's death by looking away. _

Dream-memory and reality merged as his subconscious took note of the room temperature changing and the soft sounds of someone undressing. As a teen Stiles had craved sleep and couldn't be awakened with anything less than a detonation going off in his ears, but fast-forward fifteen years and special-op training, and he snapped awake, though not fully aware of where or _when_ he was. He clutched the knife beneath his pillow even as he kept his body lax to lull the enemy into complacency. It was a tactic he'd employed in other sticky situations and it had rarely failed him before.

_5...4...3...2...1_

* * *

Derek's claws slashed out at the warm clothed body, incensed beyond reasoning as he sought to destroy whomever had broken into this sacred space; everyone knew to avoid the Stilinski house upon pain of crossing Alpha's Law, which no human or pack-mate would dare do. This stranger had somehow discerned Derek's one weakness and tried to desecrate it, stinking up the room with the smell of death and agony.

The man, whipcord lean, thrust himself away after the first strike, a high-pitched noise erupting from him. Derek already half-furred from rage, followed him over the bed and bowled into him, knocking him onto his back, the stranger's head forcibly wrenched to the side so his throat was bared. Saliva dripped from Derek's open mouth onto the fragile flesh, ready to dig into his enemy, but he held back wanting to give the trespasser a chance to spill all of his secrets.

Of course that's when the knife was thrust upwards into his stomach – the angle was wrong so the blade skittered off his rib bones, but Derek instinctively moved back a little to protect his vulnerable underbelly, and was unceremoniously flipped over into the desk along the wall, the old wood giving way beneath the weight of enraged wolf. Instead of fleeing as any sane human would, however, the stranger grabbed the nearest thing to him – a chair – and brought it down on Derek, who was a little stunned after his head cracked against a sharp edge. He barely managed to catch it right before it smashed into his face, and used the adrenaline to kick out at the other man, knocking into his knee causing him to stumble sideways.

Derek managed to roll to all fours, crouching to launch himself, already feeling his teeth sinking into rank human flesh; he was mid air when he realized the other man had righted himself again and was braced for the collision, as if he was expecting the attack. He tried to correct his trajectory to bounce off the bed beside him instead, but it was too late and a backhanded strike was driven into his face, pain exploding as Derek's nose broke from the force of gravity and mass behind the punch. He hit the wall again, though this time beneath the window, and wondered just who the fuck this guy was. He could be a hunter, but Derek was well-versed with their fighting techniques and they rarely engaged hand to hand combat because they knew they weren't fast enough or strong enough; they came loaded for bear with heavy-duty artillery, aconite laced silver bullets, and highly illegal tasers.

All this guy used was his fists and a steel, not silver, knife.

"That's all you got?" Derek taunted as he stood, aware the stranger hadn't pressed his advantage. His fur rippled down his body and disappeared as he used this lull to heal himself.

The angular-shaped shadow shrugged, his only response. Derek could smell the blood leaking down his opponent's side, which meant he was hurt too though he didn't seem to favor the wound. A grudging respect filled him at the show of strength, prompting him to give fair warning; which in retrospect was strange since Derek usually dealt with incursions into his territory with death or dismemberment, not words.

"You have ten seconds to tell me who you are before I rip out your throat with my teeth."

"You know, after hearing that threat so many times when I was younger, it's kinda lost the fear factor."

The voice was shot through with the gravelly rumble of two rocks scraping against each other, lower and deeper than it had been at eighteen, but Derek knew who it was regardless.

"Stiles."

* * *

Disbelieving laughter stuttered from his open mouth as Stiles tried to comprehend the last few minutes, his heart doing its best to fight free of the bone cage encasing it as adrenaline from the fight goosed his blood pressure to stroke-inducing levels. _What the hell was Derek Hale doing here of all places? Had he fucked up and led the wolves straight to his door? Did his recovery really screw with his skills that badly? _

The warm slide of blood interrupted his steadily careening thoughts, and he pressed his hand to the sluggishly leaking wound. He could tell from the size of it, Derek's claws had managed to shred his shirt and the skin beneath it, but it was all surface damage. Sighing, he quickly stripped the remains of the shirt off and pressed it to staunch the bleeding before dropping to sit on the bed. He felt steadier, calmer, as if his world was suddenly righted. And maybe it was: he'd spent a good portion of his teens being mauled in some manner or the other by the older wolf, so this was business as usual despite their time apart.

Derek seemed to relax as well, the risen moon limning his nude body as he leaned against the windowsill.

Direct questions had never worked in the past, but how well did he really know the Alpha now? Besides, he wanted Derek out of the house so he could take care of himself.

"So it would seem. Why are you here? Did you follow me?"

"No, ah, I was, uh, checking up on the house. I heard there was a stranger in town and wanted, to, ah, make sure no one had broken in."

Fuck his life; it would be coincidence that led the very person he was avoiding to his door. The hesitant answer was strange, especially as he didn't remember Derek ever actually _explaining_ himself, but again, how well could he know him? They'd grown up and away from one another.

"I did break in, technically, but it _is_ my house so not trespassing. Thanks for stopping by and don't let the windowpane hit you on the way out."

Derek growled, the throaty growl raising the hairs on Stiles' neck, and he briefly wished he had the same night vision as wolves so he could find his knife on the floor. He clutched the cloth at his side as he fought his body's instinctive reaction to the heavy domination vibes Derek was setting off; it was shameful after everything he went through that the wolf could still jack straight into the primal hind brain.

"Hurt. I help."

Oh fuck that noise. Stiles recognized the Alpha-speak – which was not to be confused with Derek-speak though he could understand how some might – and he growled right back.

"No."

He wasn't the same sixteen-year-old kid who alternately feared and revered the wolf before him; no, he was a grown-ass thirty-three-year old man who'd walked a dark path leading him away from Beacon Hills and its citizens, human or otherwise. He might be in Hale Territory, but he wasn't Hale Pack, and he wasn't subjected to Pack Law anymore.

"I. Hurt. You."

"Well, right back at you buddy. You might heal faster than I do, but I still broke your nose, so we're even."

Derek was on him almost before he finished speaking, a balled fist crunching into his jaw and snapping his head sideways. Stiles had a moment to think _seriously, fuck my life! _ before he lost consciousness and fell forward into the waiting Alpha's hands.

* * *

The sound of an unknown engine echoed through across the valley and woke Hannah from her light doze. She padded over to her window and saw the sweep of headlights coming up the long drive; it wasn't often humans came to the Hale House, and never so late at night. If anyone had wolf-kin or Pack problems, they would meet with Danny or Derek in town. And she knew Derek wasn't home because she'd seen him leaving earlier and she couldn't feel him in the den now.

The low-level anxiety eased when Isaac and Jackson stepped out the front door, their arms hanging loosely by their sides. They weren't the best fighters, but they were still Enforcers and would never let anyone into the house who didn't belong; everyone knew the tragic story of Derek's first Pack, and there were contingencies in place should an attack ever be launched on their home.

The dark-colored jeep shone under the new moon's light as it slowed to a stop. Hannah wasn't sure if she missed a signal, but both older wolves suddenly capered to the driver's side and she wasn't surprised when the Alpha opened the door. He murmured something low enough even her enhanced hearing couldn't catch it, so she had no idea what to make of the slumped body being carefully lifted out of the back and carried inside the house. She had a sneaking suspicion it might be the human she'd met earlier.

Hannah debated whether spying on her Alpha was wise, but she knew she wouldn't find out anything until much later, and a heavily sanitized version at that. Curiosity may have killed the cat, yet it wouldn't be _her_ downfall.

The fourth step on the stairs squeaked loudly so she nimbly hopped over it and let the balustrade hold most of her weight as she half-walked, half-slid to the landing. Once planted firmly on two feet, she slowed her heart beat and breathing so none of the other wolves could detect her presence. Hannah often envied her human classmates and their abilities to fool their parental figures: _she _had to contend with living emotional detectors.

The hallway to her left never looked so long or daunting, but her goal was at the end. Anything of significance always occurred in Derek's study, the book shelf-lined room his sanctuary and seat of power. Girding her loins, she softly tip-toed across the wood-planked floor, eyes trained forward, ears twitching for the slightest sound, and her nose scenting the drafts of air. It wouldn't do to be discovered from someone coming up _behind_ her. She had no idea where the other betas were, but figured they'd be coming soon. If she could get into the alcove next to the study's door, she'd have a decent spot near enough to hear what was going on, but hidden enough to avoid detection if anyone else came through.

Time seemed to flow weirdly because it seemed like hours passed as she inched her way down the hall, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes by the time she eased into her hidey-hole.

"Where are the others?"

"Danny and Erica went home while Boyd, Lydia, and Scott went looking for you once they figured out who Hannah met in the cemetery."

"But," Jackson drawled, "it looks like you already knew Stiles was in town."

Hannah froze at the Enforcer's jibe; she knew that name, even if she'd never met the man before today. He was her father's best friend from childhood and the son of the Sheriff. What was _he_ doing _here_?

"He was at his old house."

'Uh, Derek, is there a reason why he's wearing your shirt and smells like blood?"

There was awkward silence after Isaac's question, and Hannah wished she could peek inside to see the Alpha's expression. Jackson shuffled and coughed as he waited the answer.

"I may have fought him before finding out who he was."

"Jesus, you cracked him a good one, Derek. You do know he's still human, right? That bruise won't disappear over night."

"Gee, thanks Jackson. I never would've figured _that_ out without your brilliant deduction."

"I'm just saying..."

"Well, you can just say your ass right out the door and find me a medical kit. He might need stitches."

The pointed malice in the Alpha's tone quieted the Omega's sass and Hannah barely pulled back in time to avoid being seen as he scurried to do Derek's bidding. Fortunately he left the door open and she could peek around to see the human's – no, Stiles' – foot as he was laid across the soft low-back cushioned couch along the far wall.

"Why did he come back _now_ after so many years away? Why didn't he come back for the Sheriff's funeral?"

Derek was standing next to the couch, staring down at the prone figure. There was something startlingly vulnerable in his face that Hannah had never seen before; she was the only one who could see his expression since Isaac was standing to the left and a little behind him. It unnerved her to see Derek so unguarded.

"I don't know, Isaac. We didn't exactly get much of a chance to talk before he passed out.

The younger wolf sniffed the air and frowned at Derek's back but didn't respond. Hannah furrowed her brow as she tried to decipher whatever the beta had sensed, but she was too far away and not knowledgeable enough in rifling through scents to determine whatever information Isaac had gathered from using his nose.

"What're you planning on doing with him if he decides he doesn't want to stay?"

"I'll chain him to a radiator if I have to."

"Uh, I seem to remember that didn't work out so well the last time." Isaac continued, though at a much lower decibel, "For him _or _Scott."

Derek whirled around, crowding the other wolf until his elongated fangs brushed the beta's skin with each word. "I am Alpha and he is Pack. He will obey me!"

Isaac swallowed hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing against the lethally sharp teeth, and turned his head in submission. Derek gentled his hold and stroked the bared throat almost in apology before drawing back to his former position.

"Derek, this is _Stiles. _When did he ever do what you wanted?"

The Alpha merely shrugged, his red-tinged eyes locked on Stiles as if measuring his breathing. "I am stronger now and can keep him. He will not leave me again." Isaac whined at the possessive and implacable words, but had enough self-preservation to stay silent this time to avoid incurring Derek's wrath again.

Hannah marveled at his daring, wondering why the usually more circumspect wolf would speak out of turn like that. In all the stories she'd been told of the old days, Stiles was usually a footnote, just the human who occasionally helped out, yet what she was witnessing here contradicted everything she believed. He was _Pack_. It certainly explained her wolf's reaction to him this morning.

"Leave us, Isaac. It's a school night and Nanna really should be in bed instead of eavesdropping on us. Let the others know we will have a meeting in the morning and will deal with this situation then."

It took a full minute for Derek's words to register and once they sank in, she meeped in horror, deciding retreat was the better part of valor. She resolutely ignored the humor-tinged "Good night Hannah," as she fled up the stairs, her mind churning with all the information she'd gleaned tonight.

One thing was for sure – living in the Alpha's house was definitely better than she ever expected.

* * *

**A/N #2:** I realized half way through writing this chapter that I had taken on too much by having all seven Enforcers in the picture right away because it's harder writing scenes that not only stay true to the characters, but is also intensely frustrating to juggle their conversations while also trying to reveal information to the audience without making into an info dump. I think I was half-successful here. I did cut some things and will save them in case I can use them later.

* * *

_tbc_


	3. Expectation is the Root of All Heartache

**Title: **Rattling the Bones in Your Closet

**Author**: Sunshineditty

**Fandom**: Teen Wolf Future Fic (diverges from the events of season 2)

**Word count: 3,784**

**Rating: **T for language

**Inspiration:** "Don't Hold Your Breath" - Nicole Scherzinger, "Breakeven (Falling to Pieces)" - The Script, "The Beautiful People" - Marilyn Manson, "Breakaway" - Kelly Clarkson

* * *

**Recap: Derek is aware of Stiles' return after a short but violent fight in the old Stilinski home. Hannah learns startling new facts about her pack's history. **

* * *

"_Stilinski, you hafta see this!"_

_He looked up, seeing Wilson perched on the edge of the stone tower staring down at the court-yard. Stiles could hear the screams from here, tinny and unreal, as if a tv was on low-volume in the background. _

"_I'm comfy right here," he muttered, having no desire to see the effects of their week-long excursion in country. While he understood the need for scare tactics, it still was hard to see the effects of the wreckage. They'd tried to make sure to keep the women and children from harm, but wasn't seeing their menfolk strewn about the streets harmful?_

"_Damn, Ziegler is going to town with his headshots. I guess he's trying to beat your record!" _

_Stiles wanted to point out he achieved his during training, not using live targets, but knew it was pointless. Instead he pushed away from the wall at his back and stalked to the door leading down, ignoring Wilson's snide "Not so comfy after all when your precious record is on the line!" He may have to be in this particular location, but he didn't have to spend it with a moron narrating the senseless violence. He double-timed it down the stairwell and burst through the ground-level door, avoiding looking toward the town square where the rest of his squadron were stationed and having fun from the sounds of it. _

_He circled the base of the tower until he faced the desert, taking solace in the purity of the roiling sands. The wind kicked up swirling dust devils, their shapes changing with each gust, and Stiles could feel himself dropping into a meditative trance, though not deep enough to avoid hearing someone sneaking up to his left. Whirling around, he brought up his automatic weapon and pointed it at the strangely dressed person. Strangely dressed because it was obviously a man dressed head to toe in a burqa. He'd learned too well never to ignore his senses and something about the way the layers fell screamed masculine._

"_You have ten seconds to explain why you look like that before I shoot."_

"_Breathing takes longer than that."_

_Stiles pulled the trigger, though he made sure the muzzle was slightly turned away, so the bullets just flew over the man's right shoulder. The thick American accent, touched with a drawl from some southern state, declared this guy was a friendly, but accents could be faked._

"_Warning shot. Next one goes in your head."_

"_Man, I like you kid." _

_The dark eyes peering at him through the slit of the headdress were turned up, as if the man were smiling, but Stiles couldn't trust anyone he didn't know or see; it wasn't something he learned in the Army, but running with the pack back in Beacon Hills. He probably shouldn't be shooting first and asking questions later, but the thin silvery scars running across his chest had taught him otherwise. And it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to hide a body._

_His finger clicked on the trigger, but suddenly he was disarmed, the stranger somehow holding his gun.  
_

"_I like you, Stilinski, but not _that_ much. The name's Lynch."_

_Stiles scoffed. "CIA, huh?"_

_The slight eye crinkles were moving again. "Pop Culture fan, eh?"_

"_Is that why you tracked me down in the middle of this hell? To talk about random trivial knowledge I have? 'Cause I gotta say, that's just sad."_

"_I've been watching you. Seeing how you handle yourself." The stranger's words were now contemplative, devoid of the friendly warmth of before. It wasn't the first time Stiles had heard that, but this time unlike the last, he didn't think he was going to be tortured for information. Well, less likely at least._

"_That's not creepy." Stiles eyed the guy's stance, remembered the ease of his disarmament and looked at the outfit the stranger wore. Correct clothing for the country, if wrong type of headdress for the region, but probably a costume slapped together at the last moment. Only someone who didn't want his face to be seen would even bother. "I didn't realize Special Forces recruited like this."_

* * *

It was the familiar feel of thread moving through his flesh that roused Stiles.

"Damn, Jensen. I sleep with your girl again or something? We outta PKs?"

The steady rhythm halted, and Stiles opened his eyes impatiently. His medic knew how much he hated stitches - the feel of something foreign moving through his skin was disturbing - and there was no reason to stop. It was easier for him to hold still without anesthetic if it was done as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, however, it was the wrong green eyes that met his.

"It wasn't a nightmare was it?"

The green was slowly being swallowed by red, a once familiar sight, but now fascinating in its weirdness. Stiles had had fifteen years of non-wolfkin business to make the transition a little abrupt. The fight flashed through his mind and he saw the shadow-hulk of Derek's other form, and started laughing, not pausing even when it caused a painful hitch in his wounded side.

"Oh fuck me. I'm in town for one day - ___one day _- and already I'm sliced up to hell. By you no less."

"Stop or you'll pull the thread out. I haven't tied it off yet." The alpha-command was thick in Derek's voice, reinforced by tight pursed lips and furrowed brow. Perhaps if Stiles were still a teenager afraid of being pushed around, he might've responded, but he'd been commanded by some tough motherfuckers who could go toe-to-toe with a wolfkin and not blink, so he ignored the order and kept guffawing. It might be shock, or it might be the ridiculousness of the situation, or hell even the madness Stiles could feel clawing at the insides of his skull, but every time he looked at the Derek's pissy face, he started all over again.

Finally, gasping, he asked, "How do you even know how to stitch someone up? It's not like you or the pack needs it." He looked away from Derek's face so close to his, and stared down at his half-bared stomach. "This really didn't need it either. I coulda kept it together with a few butterfly bandages." It was sad he could determine if it required medical attention or not; of course Jensen maintained it's because Stiles could get hurt crossing a street, but that's neither here nor there.

Derek ignored Stiles' self-diagnosis and impatiently brushed aside his questing fingers. "Things have changed since you've been away, Stiles. We have more humans in the pack."

Again with the information sharing. It was downright eerie how forthcoming Derek was being. "Ah."

A black brow rose in question. "Ah? No pushing for information? No endless questioning about ___who__, ____what__, ____when__, ____where_or___why_?'

"Things have changed since I've been away, Derek." Despite the head-trip down memory lane into the wonderless years of his youth, Stiles had no desire to get involved in any way - even nominally - in Hale Pack business. He might be slightly curious about the other humans - Who were they? How did they become Pack? - but Stiles was determined to stick to his plan of getting in, getting out, and getting gone asap. This wasn't where he belonged anymore, and without his dad, there was nothing tying him to this place.

"You done yet?"

"I was doing fine until you woke up," Derek muttered, but bent his head back to his task. "Don't move."

"I hadn't planned on it."

There were only a few inches of ripped skin left, so it went quickly. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he wasn't in the Hale Den, but some crappy motel room in some foreign country with his team surrounding him, but the fantasy failed when he felt a broad tongue swipe across the finished stitches, a wolfkin cureall to speed up healing. It freaked him out as a teen, and wasn't too comforting as an adult.

Despite the magical healing properties present in wolfkin saliva (he'd once analyzed it because he was curious to see if anything would show up under a microscope - ___no_), it never failed to ring his unhygienic bell, though he was more circumspect now and refrained from the "ew" pressing against his lips.

A quick snort near his abdomen disabused him of any notion Derek didn't know how he still felt. "You know it'll help, Stiles."

There was a tearing sound and then he pressed soft fabric against the crazy quilted flesh. "I hope it's a clean at least," Stiles murmured, or at least he thought he did. It was hard sometimes to know if he was actually speaking or if his thoughts were just echoing loudly.

There was no response and his shirt moved up further as the nosy wolf investigated his ruined side, the scars running like thick ropes. Countless doctors and nurses and medical personnel had seen the damage the fire had wrought, but no one else, and he felt uncomfortable by the scrutiny in ways he wasn't when people stared at his face. He felt vulnerable, his underbelly exposed to a predator, and he reacted, sinuously slipping away from the still human hands holding him down. Derek growled low, a command to still, but Stiles ignored it and ended up on the other side of the large couch.

Derek glared at him for a moment, then gathered up his supplies and stuffed them into an incongruously feminine first aid kit. Stiles peered at it, wondering if it belonged to one of the new Pack humans or maybe his mate. Maybe he mated a human? It was startling to think of Derek as part of a couple, the older man having occupied a solo spot in his memory for so long, but he would be damned if he asked. It wasn't any of his business, not any more.

The silence stretched between them, but Stiles had long since conquered his need to ease uncomfortable situations, and let his eyes roam the long rectangular room. On either side, bookshelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor, which shouldn't surprise him as much as it did. Derek had never struck him as illiterate or stupid, but Stiles had never seen him crack open a book in all the time he'd known him; there wasn't a shred of doubt, however, these were Derek's personal treasures. He couldn't read any of the upright spines from his position, but he liked how the paperbacks were slotted in next to impressive looking and weighty tomes – he had a feeling there wasn't the usual system of organization that most of the English-speaking world used.

Deciding he needed to stop thinking about Derek's reading habits, he forced his attention to move on towards the only other furniture in the room. The darkly patterned wood used for the shelves was echoed in the large desk opposite him, the width and breadth a statement of powerful intent. There weren't any chairs positioned in front of it and the couch was far enough away it couldn't be used as a seat. Stiles stifled a snort of amusement when he noticed the small blue rug on the tiled floor.

"What's so funny?"

Stiles started, not realizing Derek was watching him. "The rug."

"Why?"

"When you call someone on the carpet, it's literally."

Derek leaned against the desk, a corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"You did that on purpose," he accused. Derek didn't respond verbally but the smirk grew into a small smile. There was an air of fondness to it that Stiles didn't understand, but knew was dangerous. Though he'd grown beyond the eighteen year old's infatuation with the man across the room, he also self-aware enough to know a small part of him still felt the attraction. There was no chance of him acting upon it, yet it still felt like a splinter lodged in his sternum, the stirring of interest when he'd been nonsexual for longer than he'd cared to admit to. He also needed to change the tenor of his thoughts before his body's chemistry betrayed him to Derek's very astute nose.

"So is my car here?"

Derek stood upright at that, his face closing down in a familiar way. "Why? You're in no condition to drive."

"I've driven in far worse condition. Hell, I spent a lot of my formative years doing that _for you_, so fuck you very much."

"I think you should stay here for what's left of the night and we'll talk about it in the morning."

Was he _coaxing_ him? "Dude, I'm fine and have no intention of staying here. Oh, and news flash, you can't just do that, and you really should check your instincts next time. Fortunately for you I'm not most people."

Stiles felt the years roll back (again) as the remembered confused yet angry furrow made its home between Derek's thick black brows.

"Do what?"

"Take me as if I were lost luggage."

"You were hurt."

"I'm thirty-three years old and capable enough to figure out how to help myself; I've been just fine for the last fifteen years."

Derek's lips curled back into a sneer as he stared pointedly at the scarred part of Stiles' face. "Looks like it too."

"Go to hell," he muttered tiredly. It seemed Derek hadn't changed at all: when in doubt (or cornered) come out swinging verbally or physically. On the other hand, he appreciated Derek's inability to handle anything delicately. Stiles knew what he looked like and Derek was the first one to address it head on without dancing around the point. A faint expression of surprised crossed Derek's face, but it faded quickly, so Stiles ignored him in favor of sinking back into the overstuffed couch and letting his head fall back against the cushion.

He rubbed lightly at the thick bandage and cursed his decided lack of regeneration, despite the magical healing spit. He wasn't kidding when he said this wasn't a deciding factor in keeping him trapped here; on the other hand, he also really didn't want to get into a physical altercation with Derek again. Obviously Stiles' sneaky skills were being called into play here if he wanted to get past Derek with minimum fuss.

"Stop touching that," the wolf scolded. "Do you want it to bleed again?"

Stiles rolled his eyes at the ceiling, but refrained from saying anything. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was still sixteen. "Okay, I'm in your lair. Now what?"

"What do you mean ___now what_? You're the one who's been avoiding Beacon Hills all these years. If anything, _you_ should answer to me."

"Nope."

"Nope?" He probably shouldn't snort at Derek's incredulity, but it was too hard to keep it in. The wolf acted like he actually mattered in the grand scheme of Stiles' life; Derek might've forced him to come to the den, but he couldn't keep him here indefinitely.

"You getting hard of hearing in your old age? I don't answer to you, nor have I ever really. I was Scott's Beta and then I left."

"That's not quite how I remember it," Derek quietly retorted, much to Stiles' surprise.

"Well, enlighten _me_ on how _you _saw it. As clear as I remember it, you only needed me when you couldn't get Scott to do something you wanted; or when there was a magical need and Lydia wasn't available."

Stiles was appalled by the bitterness coating his words. He thought he'd come to terms with his past with Derek, but his tone clearly indicated otherwise. This wasn't the person he was _now_; he wasn't Beacon Hills' Stiles Stilinski sometimes magic user, but the Army's retired Staff Sergeant Stilinksi noncommissioned officer.

'You know what, I don't care. This isn't why I'm here, Derek. I came home to settle my dad's estate and then leave."

The silence that followed his statement had Stiles bringing his head back up to see why.

Derek looked at him quizzically, his head tilted to the side. Stiles could almost see wolf ears cocked forward. "Settle the estate? What are you talking about? Your dad left everything he owned to the Pack."

"Wha-?"

"He figured you had your career in the Army, so he bequeathed everything to us as a stake in our future."

There was obviously a story behind the Sheriff's decision, but Stiles was too busy coming to terms with his father's choices to ask. It was a blow to his heart that his father hadn't thought he would return to Beacon Hills - which, okay, he might've stated more than once, but it still felt like a betrayal to know the home he'd always kept in the back of his mind wasn't available.

"So I guess I _was _trespassing then."

Derek moved restlessly, a betraying action that screamed this conversation was making him uncomfortable. "You're Pack, you always have been and John knew it. Figured when you came back, we'd welcome you home. You can't trespass on something that's yours too, Stiles."

"Okay first off, weird you calling my dad by his first name. Just gotta throw that out there. And secondly, you told me before I left for college I wasn't Pack."

It was one of the saddest memories he'd taken with him, though the stinging pain had long since faded. Stiles could look back more objectively now, and see it was for the best. Without Derek's hard cold words, he would've never been able to leave Beacon Hills and start anew; in a way, it was Derek who'd started him down his current path.

Maybe that was giving the wolf a little too much credit, but still, Stiles knew he wouldn't have been able to leave his dad or friends, or Derek for that matter, without the push. In his adolescent arrogance, he'd assumed they wouldn't be able to get along without him and his research, but time and distance had allowed Stiles to see his true part in everything.

"You were talking about staying here and going to the BHCC with Scott! What was I supposed to say? A good Alpha does what's best for his pack."

"True." The Army had taught him as much. "Then why are you so butt hurt over me not coming back? Did you really think I would come back somewhere I didn't feel wanted?"

"I was frustrated with your choices when I said it, but it seemed the best way for you to accept the scholarship," Derek shrugged. "You've never taken me at my word before, so what's the difference now?"

Stiles gaped, unable to process the wolf's words fully. In all of his college-aged fantasies – _Derek coming to USC and telling him he loved him_ (extremely unlikely), _Derek showing up in his dorm room to lurk and demand research_ (somewhat likely) – he'd never expected the alpha to just wave his hand at one of the most painful moments in his young life as if it were nothing.

"I dunno, Derek, maybe because you made it abundantly clear before I left that I wasn't trusted, useless, and a burden, so it wasn't unbelievable you wouldn't want to claim a mere human as Pack."

It was Derek's turn to gape, his eyes wide with surprise. The expression should've tickled Stiles' erratic funny bone, but instead it made him uncomfortable. He wasn't used to the openness and range of emotions Derek was displaying; in the two and half years he'd run with the wolves, he'd gotten used to deciphering Derek's moods based solely on body language as opposed to reading his face. In fact, it was this early training that helped him immensely in the field during interrogations or humanitarian operations.

"What are you _talking _about? You know my first pack had humans in it; I'm not a fucking specist. "

Stiles shook his head, suddenly just done with the conversation. He hadn't come back to Beacon Hills to hash over ancient history; in fact, it wasn't even on the agenda. "Lets just say we're going to have to agree to disagree and call it a fucking day. I'm tired and sore and a little hurt here." Stiles wasn't above using his humanness against the alpha – it had worked before and time might've changed a lot, but surely not Derek's inexhaustible guilt.

"I'll show you to your room."

_Yahtzee! Wait. What?_ "My room?"

Derek had already crossed towards the door and opened it. "Of course _your room_. I built this for pack members and you're one of them." He looked over his shoulder. "Coming?"

Stiles was a little dazed as Derek led him up the stairs and down a small hallway just off the stairwell. He briefly noted the picture frames spread across the walls, but didn't bother looking at the faces. They stopped at the end where two doors sat side by side.

Derek opened the right door and walked through the doorway, flicking a light switch. Stiles stayed where he was because if he took a step forward, he would be making promises he had no intentions of keeping. The whole situation was bizarre: Derek's claims there was no estate despite the very real letter in his gear, the idea of a pack home again, much less one with a room for him. He was frozen with indecision and aching with unnamed emotions roiling in his gut.

"Stiles."

It was a name he'd heard more times in the past half hour or so than he'd heard in the intervening years since he left Beacon Hills. The tone and voice were so familiar he could close his eyes and pick out Derek in a crowd of chanting thousands; he knew Derek was really saying _don't be an idiot and just stand there with your thumb up your ass_.

"Derek," he quietly responded, hoping his unspoken _fuck you and the little dog you rode in on_ came across as clearly.

By the irritated grunt, it appeared it did.

The weary, "We'll talk in the morning," spurred Stiles has nothing else did. It was better to just give in now and deal with the consequences of his actions later. He stepped across and into a room filled with only a made bed; he bee-lined for the mattress and flopped back, taking care not to jostle his side.

"Night."

"Night."

And the ceiling light shut off as the door closed.

His eyes closed and he surrendered to the inevitable.

* * *

When Derek knocked on the door the next day, he was vibrating with anxiousness and excitement; the anxiousness of the human side who knew how stubborn Stiles could be and wondering what problems he would cause, but the excitement was all wolf, happy the pack was finally whole.

Minutes later, both were in agreement that Stiles needed to be hunted down and taught his place beneath him.

The bed was neatly made and the room was empty.


End file.
